A striking line from this week’s parashat Shlach comes from the report of the scouts, sent to purvey the Promised Land: "We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we appeared to them." (Num 13:33)
Notice that the scouts do not say "they saw us as grasshoppers," but "we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves."
A teaching attributed to Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa lingers on this detail. The tragedy was not merely that the land seemed intimidating. The tragedy was that the Israelites had diminished themselves. They had forgotten their own capacity before anyone else had the chance to challenge it.
I have been thinking about that teaching this week as I reflect on the extraordinary adult b'mitzvah celebration we shared last Shabbat.
Eighteen people began that journey, and fifteen completed the nine months of study, practice, questioning, community-building, and Torah learning. They then stood before our community as b'mitzvah. It moved me not only that they culminated their learning so beautifully, but in doing so what they claimed: that they have a place in Torah, that they have wisdom to contribute, that Jewish life is not something happening elsewhere, led by someone else, but something they themselves create, sustain, and evolve.
The rabbis noticed that the commandment of tzitzit appears immediately after the story of the spies. In Bamidbar Rabbah 17:6, they point out that the same Hebrew root appears in both passages. The spies are sent לָתוּר (latur) the land, and later we are commanded regarding the tzitzit: "Do not scout (taturu) after your hearts and after your eyes..." (Num 15:39). Alex spoke to this connection in their dvar torah this past shabbat.
The midrash suggests that the mitzvah of tzitzit is a response to the spies' mistake. The problem was not that they looked. The problem was that they looked and forgot. They saw obstacles but lost sight of who they were.
The tzitzit become a wearable reminder: remember your commitments, remember your people, remember your purpose, remember yourself.
And that is why I keep thinking of Rena Branson's song Our Power. Its refrain is not simply about power; it is about remembering power. The song understands something the spies forgot: memory and courage are intertwined. We lose our strength when we forget who we are.
Our adult b'mitzvah cohort offered our community that reminder. In a time when institutions feel fragile, when many of us are carrying grief, uncertainty, or exhaustion, this cohort spent nine months saying: Jewish learning matters. Community matters. Torah matters. We matter.
With kavod and appreciation to the adult b'mitzvah cohort – our own torah scouts, may we all ride the wave of their work and culmination of their study. May we all admit where we have begun seeing ourselves as grasshoppers. May we all tie a figurative thread around our fingers, our garments, our hearts, our lives, as the tzitzit are tied to our garments. May we remember our power, our obligations, our community, our role in the evolution, healing, and thriving of our torah.
Shabbat shalom and, I may use my freedom of the pulpit, Let's Go Knicks!
R’ David
Notice that the scouts do not say "they saw us as grasshoppers," but "we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves."
A teaching attributed to Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa lingers on this detail. The tragedy was not merely that the land seemed intimidating. The tragedy was that the Israelites had diminished themselves. They had forgotten their own capacity before anyone else had the chance to challenge it.
I have been thinking about that teaching this week as I reflect on the extraordinary adult b'mitzvah celebration we shared last Shabbat.
Eighteen people began that journey, and fifteen completed the nine months of study, practice, questioning, community-building, and Torah learning. They then stood before our community as b'mitzvah. It moved me not only that they culminated their learning so beautifully, but in doing so what they claimed: that they have a place in Torah, that they have wisdom to contribute, that Jewish life is not something happening elsewhere, led by someone else, but something they themselves create, sustain, and evolve.
The rabbis noticed that the commandment of tzitzit appears immediately after the story of the spies. In Bamidbar Rabbah 17:6, they point out that the same Hebrew root appears in both passages. The spies are sent לָתוּר (latur) the land, and later we are commanded regarding the tzitzit: "Do not scout (taturu) after your hearts and after your eyes..." (Num 15:39). Alex spoke to this connection in their dvar torah this past shabbat.
The midrash suggests that the mitzvah of tzitzit is a response to the spies' mistake. The problem was not that they looked. The problem was that they looked and forgot. They saw obstacles but lost sight of who they were.
The tzitzit become a wearable reminder: remember your commitments, remember your people, remember your purpose, remember yourself.
And that is why I keep thinking of Rena Branson's song Our Power. Its refrain is not simply about power; it is about remembering power. The song understands something the spies forgot: memory and courage are intertwined. We lose our strength when we forget who we are.
Our adult b'mitzvah cohort offered our community that reminder. In a time when institutions feel fragile, when many of us are carrying grief, uncertainty, or exhaustion, this cohort spent nine months saying: Jewish learning matters. Community matters. Torah matters. We matter.
With kavod and appreciation to the adult b'mitzvah cohort – our own torah scouts, may we all ride the wave of their work and culmination of their study. May we all admit where we have begun seeing ourselves as grasshoppers. May we all tie a figurative thread around our fingers, our garments, our hearts, our lives, as the tzitzit are tied to our garments. May we remember our power, our obligations, our community, our role in the evolution, healing, and thriving of our torah.
Shabbat shalom and, I may use my freedom of the pulpit, Let's Go Knicks!
R’ David
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